


Times Are Changing I Know

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Children, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Domestic, Fluffy Ending, Funny, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 04:10:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: St. James’ Park knew Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell well. It had seen them in tunics and hose and pantaloons, in tall powdered wigs and shiny buckle shoes. It saw them in 1862 as a small slip of parchment burst into flames. It saw them in 1984 as they sat on a gingham picnic blanket and munched on lamb kebabs.It saw them in 2013 as the demon Crowley pushed a young boy with dark hair on the swings.





	Times Are Changing I Know

**Author's Note:**

> is this late?  
yeah  
but i did have like four anxiety attacks yesterday so uhhhhh  
y e a h

St. James’ Park knew Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell well. It had seen them in tunics and hose and pantaloons, in tall powdered wigs and shiny buckle shoes. It saw them in 1862 as a small slip of parchment burst into flames. It saw them in 1984 as they sat on a gingham picnic blanket and munched on lamb kebabs.

It saw them in 2013 as the demon Crowley pushed a young boy with dark hair on the swings.

Had the park been a sentient being and not, say, a collection of flora and fauna in a specially designated location, it most definitely would’ve had a few questions.

For one, Aziraphale’s new grooming habits were… atrocious. Absolutely dreadful. Horrible in every possible way. The angel needed to invest in a good exfoliant, some tweezers, and a great deal of orthodontic surgery.

For another, Crowley had, in all the years the park had known him, been, in fact, a _ him _ . Now, however, the demon was undeniably a  _ her _ .

(This was, actually, not as odd an occurrence as it seemed—gender was, at the end of the day, a construct of human society, and infernal/ethereal beings generally had no need for human constructs, and only chose to indulge in them when they felt it suited them.)

Then there was the child.

For as long as St. James’ Park had served as the ritual meeting ground between an angel and a demon, neither had shown any interest in children (or, at least, any  _ outward _ interest in children—had the park been paying attention instead of acting as the mating grounds for a great number of geese, it would’ve noticed that every time a child was near Crowley, they never cried, were never hurt, and, usually, somehow came to be in possession of an ice-cream cone).

And yet, there he was, a small, floppy-haired boy with neon green bandaids on his knees.

“Higher!” the boy cried as he kicked his feet. “Higher, Nanny, higher!”

Crowley sighed as she straightened her black pillbox hat. “How do we ask for the things we want, Warlock?” she asked patiently.

“I demand you push me higher!” Warlock shouted in reply, drawing scandalised looks from all the nearby park goers.

“There’s a fearsome lad,” the demon said.

From his bench next to the playground, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate tutted behind his utterly and absolutely terrible front teeth. “And what else do we say, young Master Warlock?” the angel asked.

The boy huffed. “I demand you push me higher  _ please _ ,” he amended, and Aziraphale grinned.

Crowley did her best not to smile, but couldn’t  _ quite _ hide it as she did, in fact, push Warlock higher.

(Technically, the swing set wasn’t meant to  _ go _ any higher, but it found itself willing to try.)

Six years later, St. James’ Park would yet again play host to the pair of immortal deities, now each retired from their respective positions in Upper and Lower management.

Their appearances were rather back to normal (and if the park had thought the teeth and the dress strange, it didn’t have the capabilities to describe the absurdity of some of the other…  _ ensembles _ the two entities had worn—but then again, of course, it didn’t; it was a  _ park _ ) as they sat on that same bench Aziraphale had sat upon all those years ago.

The dark-haired boy—now much taller and with somehow  _ even floppier hair _ —was sitting between them, a lime sherbet cone dripping down his hand.

“And you’re a man, now?” he asked, turning towards the demon.

“Well,” the demon replied, “man  _ shaped _ .”

“And you, what, got plastic surgery?”

“Something like that.”

“And you two live together?” Warlock asked. “Like... as a couple?”

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, who shrugged. “I suppose that’s one way to put it,” the angel agreed.

Warlock hopped to his feet with such excitement that he almost dropped his sherbet.

“I knew it!” he yelled. “I  _ knew _ you two were together! I told my mom, but  _ she  _ said I was just being nosy—but I was  _ right _ ! I knew it!”

Crowley chuckled under his breath. “That you did, little hellspawn,” he muttered. Behind the bench, he took the angel’s hand. “That you did.”

**Author's Note:**

> tell me what you think!


End file.
